


Pale Shelter

by msgenevieve



Category: La Femme Nikita
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-19
Updated: 2009-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-04 14:59:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msgenevieve/pseuds/msgenevieve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is looking at you as though these questions are very important but your answers are all wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pale Shelter

**Author's Note:**

> The final scene from "On Borrowed Time" - the characters and their dialogue do not belong to me. Written for the [](http://community.livejournal.com/50lyricsfanfic/profile)[**50lyricsfanfic**](http://community.livejournal.com/50lyricsfanfic/) challenge. Title shamelessly taken from a Tears for Fears song. Click [here](http://www.livejournal.com/users/msgenevieve/60182.html#cutid1) for the Lyrics Table.

  
_I never thought that this day would ever come;  
when your words and your touch just struck me numb_

 

~*~

 

You look at your hands as you reach for the door. The paint is white and thick beneath your fingernails. It streaks your palms and wrists, pallid slashes crisscrossing your skin.

"Hello."

Michael looks older than you remember. "Hi."

You rub your damp forefinger and thumb together, imagining the wet paint sliding into the tiny tread of your fingerprints. "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to see you."

"Yeah?"

He looks at you as though he expects you to say more, but the scent of paint is fluttering beneath your nose, calling and enticing. Reminding you of the promise of whiteness all around you, every wall the same, pristine and uncluttered. "They're watching the apartment, you know."

He follows you into the room. "I know."

You smile at him, because it seems like the right thing to do, then tighten your grip on the wooden handle of the roller. It whisks across the surface of the wall, and you can hear the throaty squelch as the paint is laved onto the plaster, smooth and flawless. White and clean and pure. You hum under your breath as you lift the roller once more, but you don't recognise the tune.

He watches you for a moment, then takes two long steps that close the distance between you. "What did they do to you?" His hand touches your hair, threading gently. Coaxing.

_lights flashing the sting of grief and loss nothing lasts everything dies it's better to feel nothing than to be broken pain and fear and falling apart and falling away until nothing is left to feel_

You blink, your eyes hurting as though the light is suddenly too bright, then you shake your head. "Nothing."

His fingers dig into your arm, hard enough to make your grip convulse around the handle of the roller. It drops into the pan with a wet thud, splattering paint like wedding confetti. Annoyed, you pull away from him. "Nothing," you say again, louder this time. There's tiny pinpoints of white on his suit. You wonder if you should tell him, if he'll be angry, then you wonder why you care.

He touches your face, then his mouth is soft against yours. "Tell me. "

Your mouth tingles briefly, then the sensation fades. "I don't know. " Something dances at the edge of your memory, taunting, mocking. You try to chase it through your mind, but it hurts. It hurts and you feel the tears burning your eyes but there's nothing else there and it hurts so much. "I don't remember."

Then your hand is in his, his fingertips stroking your palm. At his touch, a pale memory flutters feebly like the wings of a trapped bird.

_lights flashing the sting of grief and loss nothing lasts everything dies it's better to feel nothing than to be broken pain and fear and falling apart and falling away until nothing is left to feel_

The pain in your head splinters, hot tendrils curling behind your eyes, and then it vanishes. Gone.

Everything's gone.

"Don't." You pull your hand away because his touch feels like nothing and that frightens you most of all. "It doesn't work." As soon as the words are out of your mouth, you frown, confused. Your thoughts flicker and falter with every word you say until it feels though you're talking backwards. Something was different but now it's just the same – you're just the same – and you don't know why you're saying these things to him.

He stares at you and - for a few muddled seconds - something dark again skirts the edges of your mind, scratching like a cat outside a locked door. His eyes are burning with emotion – too much emotion – as he stares at you. Looking at you as though these questions are very important but your answers are all wrong. You inhale sharply, your senses filling with the scent of paint and fear.

_lights flashing the sting of grief and loss nothing lasts everything dies it's better to feel nothing than to be broken pain and fear and falling apart and falling away until nothing is left to feel_

The stranger's voice – your voice - once again vibrates in your throat, speaking words that you finally understand. "I don't love you anymore."

As if from a great distance, you watch the blood drain from his face - pale skin as white as the walls. He closes his eyes and for a few seconds, his face is soft and sad. He turns and walks away from you, his gait as unsteady as a drunk on the street, slamming the door behind him as he leaves.

_I'm sorry._

The silent whisper comes from some dark, forgotten place inside you, and a sharp flash of pain immediately streaks behind your eyes. Gasping, you push him from your mind, sucking in cold, fume-tinged air until he's gone from your head.

The pain stops.

Your face is wet with tears you don't remember crying. Reaching for the roller once more, you begin again. By the time you've finished the wall, you've hummed the same nameless tune several times over. You still can't remember the words, but it doesn't matter. Somehow it's easier to hum the tune if you can't remember.

 

~*~


End file.
